Jonathan Galassi

Lunch Poem For F.S. - Poem by Jonathan Galassi

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The dirty sunlight in the clerestorywindows of our faux-Parisian lairlends a streaky, half-forgiving glowto yet another summit with no purpose:duck and iron Pinot Noir and doubledecaf espresso, sheer necessitiesfor urban inmates who still keep the faithwith a wan cerise velvet banquetteand eye-level mirror lit with facesa John-the-Baptist puritan might judgecorrupt with too much liquid happiness.But it is happinessto lounge in semi-silence while the daydownshifts and natter on about the shitthat passes for Shinola but we knowis only sauce for the gander.It’s not that we’re against the war,we’re against them: the boobs, the pimps,the Know-It-Alls, the True Believers—everyonewho isn’t here awash in downtown goldinhaling the exhaust of Burgundy . . .Loafing, gloating, having it our wayFriday afternoon at Montrachet.